


Nouvelles Choses (New Things)

by CaptainCherryCola (AirbornBiohazard)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Assassin Kirkland, Assassins, Blood, Emotions Are A Pain, England's POV, Gen, Hitman Jones, Hitmen, Human AU, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jones Is Terrifying AF, Murder, Not Really FrUK, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 00:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10348284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirbornBiohazard/pseuds/CaptainCherryCola
Summary: Love. Of all things, that infamous emotion. My mind reeled. Francis Bonnefoy, or anyone, in love with me?***...You see, this is why I don’t like people.Even if they’re dead, they only cause you pain.





	1. Tromperie (Deception)

**Tromperie** ( _Deception_ )

I sat at my place at the long table, twiddling my thumbs and trying not to appear too anxious. The dinner portion of the party was dragging on a bit too long for my tastes. Not that it was really much of a party. Just an excuse for all the major companies of the town to get together and eat posh food and talk about money; for the men to show off their wives, who were dressed in silk and ribbons and lace; and for everyone to drink themselves merry on pricey champagne.

I was not there to be merry. I was not there to talk about profits.

I was there to kill.

The target in question was sitting across the way from me, talking animatedly about something that I’m sure was irrelevant. He shot glances at me every now and again, but for the most part I ignored him, like I usually did. The two women he was talking to cooed and giggled where appropriate, and then some. He winked at them a few times, exciting more bursts of refined laughter.

I wasn’t sure what drew people in flocks to him; whether it was his high name, his gentle voice, his charming looks, or his piles of money. I hated all of it. But I  _ was _ sure why he had to… ‘kick the bucket’, as it were.  The latter - he was growing too wealthy, too fast. And with his father’s recent passing, He was inheriting the entire estate of his family and the company that bore his name; a company that I had seen flourish all across the city and farther.

Bonnefoy.

Francis Bonnefoy. Though I was quite sure he didn’t know my name. At least, not any more than ‘Mr. Kirkland’. Not that it mattered. We’d never held a single conversation, nor even exchanged simple greetings. He was just another annoyingly familiar face.

You see, I don’t much like people. Most of them aren’t worthy of the air they so greedily breathe; nonetheless whatever wealth fate throws at them. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I serve as an assassin-for-hire. I figure I wouldn’t be much good at anything else. I can’t talk to people, I can’t make anything but makeshift weapons, and I certainly don’t give a damn about anyone else. I only work for the company I was attending the party for to keep up appearances. Besides, if I could observe targets from as natural a setting as across a table… all the more advantage to my hands.

I took a deep breath and rubbed my thumb over the knife handle hidden in the folds of my jacket. It wouldn’t be the best thing for the job, but poison was short-at-hand, and it would work better than nothing.

I couldn’t wait to be finished with the job at hand. It wasn’t that I was nervous, per se, but there was something about Bonnefoy that… unsettled me, somehow. Something in the way his eyes sparked; something in the way he moved, perhaps. I hated it.

Finally, the majority of attendees were finished dining -I hadn’t eaten anything, naturally; working on a full stomach is less than satisfactory- so they left in pods for the main room of the extravagant house, where the champagne no doubt was waiting.

Bonnefoy and the two women left a few minutes later. I watched as Francis disappeared around the corner, and waited until I could no longer hear his laugh to start counting. I stayed in the dining hall until exactly eight and a half minutes after he left to take my own leave. It was just random enough a time to not seen suspicious, and it gave him enough time to get comfortable and drink a bit.

I had a loosely formulated plan, but it was going to take a bit of improvisation. My target was the flirtatious type, quick to trust. I had to take advantage of that. I’d been observing him for a while by then, and I’d seen him flirt with men on more than a few occasions… I just had to hope that I had enough charm to lure him away with me - or that he had enough alcohol in him.

I looked out at the main hall before me, trying to not look like I was searching for him.

I found him standing against a far wall, sipping champagne and very much alone. Wondering how I had gotten quite so lucky, I made my way down the large staircase and wandered aimlessly through the crowd for a bit. I kept my eye on him, expecting at any moment to find him politely conversing with someone. But, alas, he remained alone. The fates seemed to be working in my favour, and I prayed that they kept it up.

I ran a hand through my hair, lowered my eyelids slightly, and relaxed my shoulders. Nothing quite gets a person’s guard down like someone else with their guard even lower.

I took another glance at him, only to find his blue eyes on mine. I resisted the urge to look away, and instead produced a small smirk and a wink. The pleasantly surprised look on his face was quickly replaced with a sly smile of his own, and I took it as my invitation to walk over to him. I leaned on the wall beside him, sending the last of my prayers to whomever would care to hear them.

“So, Bonnefoy…? I don’t believe we’ve spoken before.”

He shook his head lightly, long blonde hair swaying around his shoulders. “No, I don’t believe we have. Kirkland, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Anyways, what’s a man like you doing alone at a party, hm? I’d have figured you to be over in the thick of the conversation.”

He laughed, and the sound vaguely reminded me of a windchime. My discomfort grew, but I ignored it.

“Yes, well… Sometimes you need a more…  _ private _ council with others, no?” He shifted a bit closer to me. The glass in his hand was a drop away from empty.

I scoffed a little, playfully. “Private? You looked rather  _ lonesome _ to me.”

“We’ll just say I was waiting for someone to come sweep me off my feet, hm?”

I hoped our disadvantageous height difference didn’t take away from my seductive gaze. ...At least, I hoped it was seductive. “I could help you with that, if you’d like.”

Bonnefoy didn’t reply for a bit, and seemed to consider me, looking up and down my figure as discreetly as he would if I were a new vehicle in a dealer’s lot. Something inside of me wanted to hide from those eyes.

Finally, he bent his head down and caught my lips, tipping my chin up to him. He smelled like wildflowers, and tasted like expensive champagne. I wanted badly to get away, but I also was strangely allured to the situation.

I pulled away, and he made a soft sound of disappointment. “Not out here,” I murmured. He nodded in understanding.

“Lead the way then, amour.”

I took his hand and led him around a few corners; out of sight of the rest of the party, and out of immediate earshot. Then, if I could just do the rest quietly… I placed my hands on his shoulders, leaning him onto the nearest wall. I initiated the next kiss, though I wasn’t quite sure where to go from there.

Luckily -for I suppose it was a good thing- Francis seemed to know what he was doing. He laughed again, but this was a deeper, darker, warmer laugh. I soon decided that I hated that laugh. He took me by the waist and spun us around, pushing me up to the wall instead. I decided against fighting it, and let him have his way. He kissed me for a long time, and by the time he let me breathe, my hands were tangled in that golden hair of his.

He nuzzled into my cheek, trailing his lips down my jaw and neck. My hands slid from his hair so my arms could fall around his neck. I was acutely aware of his fingers digging into my sides and his teeth nipping softly at the skin of my throat. Not at all used to that amount of contact, I admit to pulling him closer and moaning a bit.

After all, it wasn’t my fault he was good at what he did. Better than I had expected, in fact.

A moment or so later, he took one of my hands away and placed it against the wall, entwining our fingers. My heart battered the inside of my chest, though whether it was because his mouth had found a sensitive spot or because my knife hand had been immobilized, I wasn’t quite sure. Probably both.

I let my head fall back on the wall, a few more sounds regrettably escaping me. Surely I wouldn’t fail to fulfill the contract simply because my target was a good kisser?

Francis soon pulled back, releasing my hand and moving instead to pet my hair. I took the time to catch both my breath and my resolution. I had a job to do, and the sooner it was done, the better.

He played with a lock of my hair, twisting it around one of his fingers. He murmured, “You know… I’ve been worried about you, for a long time.”

It took me a moment to process his words. “W-worried? What do you mean?” I had to fight to keep my voice as steady as possible. I was losing it.  The mysterious, unpleasant feeling in me rose like bile in my throat. I reached my hand into my jacket. The handle of the knife was waiting, patiently.

“You see, I’m quite good at reading people through their eyes… I’ve been observing you for quite a while now, and by the looks of yours, you’re not a happy person,” He pressed our foreheads together, arresting my gaze. “You’re lonely… I’d like to help you.”

I gripped the knife. My heart thundered. He… cared? Wanted to help me? How? ... _ Why _ ?

His left hand stroked the back of my neck, and his right thumb rubbed circles in my hip. My instinct to flee from the party and from his embrace were fiercer than they had been at all before. My breath came up short, and water welled up in my eyes; but I didn’t know why. I felt overwhelmed with the desire to run as far away from him as possible.

His eyes softened a bit more, and he pulled my head into his chest, whispering to me. He thought I was crying.

I had the knife’s blade positioned to the most vital point of his abdomen. He didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to console me… He was worried about me. He cared. He had some kind of feelings for me. I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost missed the last part of his whispers. But I heard it.

I wish I hadn’t.

“Shh… Je crois que je suis amoureux de toi,” he breathed. “You’re alright…”

My French wasn’t the best, so it took me a few seconds.

_ ‘...I think I’m in love with you.’ _

Love. Of all things, that infamous emotion. My mind reeled. Francis Bonnefoy, or  _ anyone _ , in love with  _ me _ ?

The thought had never crossed my mind. Lust, perhaps, but  _ love _ ?

And then another new thought: what if that unsettled feeling I’d been having recently were, in fact, love?

...What if  _ I _ were in love with Francis Bonnefoy? I’d prided myself for so long in being devoid of basic emotions, the thought of any kind of feeling for another human being seemed horrifying. ...Love?

The resulting, severe churning and twisting of my gut was so agonizing that I gagged, and sheer reflex propelled me to plunge the blade into the man’s soft body a bit earlier than originally planned. It slipped into him as if his stomach were its own sheath; home sweet home, at long last.

I felt his grip on me tighten in pain a moment before I heard his quiet gasp. He pushed me back far enough that he could look down at the dark red blossoming onto his shirt, the knife handle sticking out like a dear friend’s hand waving for attention. Then he looked up at me, straight in the face. The agony and shock in his bright eyes was so powerful that for some reason I felt an “I-I’m sorry…” fly out from my lips.

I was doing a lot of things for the first time that day.

The shock in his face quickly faded, and was replaced seamlessly with all-too-late realization.

“I… s-should have known they’d... s-send someone... after me...” He coughed, and a trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

But still he smiled at me.

“Please… t-tell me… mon amour, what’s your name…?” His voice was quiet, and he gripped me for support.

I sighed. The poor man only had a few minutes to live, anyway.

“...Arthur,” I whispered, as I moved to lay him against the wall. He slid downwards, curling up on the floor. I unconsciously went with him, and noticed after a few moments that he was gripping my hand tightly. He whimpered like a dying animal, resting his head on my chest. He wasn’t being loud enough to alert anyone, and I couldn’t think of anything else to do except squeeze his hand in return and set my chin atop his head. I would have said something, but there wasn’t really anything important to say.

Minutes passed, and the only sounds he made were small whimpers. Eventually he laughed gently, and whispered to himself.

“Arthur… un beau nom…”

I sat on the floor of the hallway for a while, listening to his rough breathing. When he was finally still, I leaned him against the wall, arranging his hair neatly, so that is framed his delicate face.

I figured it was the least I could do for him.

I gently pulled the knife from him, wiping the blade on a nearby tapestry. I concealed it once more in my jacket, and took my phone from my pocket. I snapped a photograph and shoved the device back away. Photos are the only trophies I allow myself to have. I tilted my face down and softly kissed his forehead, as if in apology.

After a long-awaited sigh of breath I stood, dusted myself off -which was, in hindsight, completely unnecessary; as there was not a speck of dust in the house, and no one should have been seeing me for a while- and headed for the back exit as I had planned earlier.

An odd feeling welled up in my chest as I thought of the beautiful corpse that I had left behind me.

A few stray tears slipped their ways down my cheeks. I wiped them away with annoyed indifference.

 

...You see, this is why I don’t like people.

Even if they’re dead, they only cause you pain.

 

(A/N:  
Translations: (for you weenies who don't have the time for google translate and/or don't speak fluent French) (but that's okay cause i don't speak French either) (any errors with translations are google's fault)  
the titles are all French. the translations are in parenthesis.  
'no' - stereotypical suffix put onto French people's sentences to make them sound classy  
'amour' - French. 'love'  
'je crois que je suis amoureux de toi' - French. 'i think i'm in love with you', but i'm fairly certain i explained this one  
'mon amour' - French. 'my love'  
'un beau nom' - still French. 'a beautiful name')


	2. Ça Fait Longtemps (Long Time, No See)

**Ça Fait Longtemps** ( _ Long Time, No See _ )

I had just stepped onto the back patio when I felt eyes on me. I turned about until I found them. Their owner had his arms crossed, leaning casually against a tree. The crisp white of his dress shirt was broken only by his black suspenders and bow tie. No blood, this time.

He smiled at me. It was nothing like the sweetly sad smile Francis had given me, no; it was a wide, hungry grin. The smile of someone whose sanity was barely there.

“Hello, Kirkland,” he cooed. “Looks like  _ somebody _ just got off work.”

I glowered at him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. If he was, he was either on business, or he had a deathwish. From the glint in his eyes, it could have been either, or neither, or both. “Get out of my city, Jones. Don’t you remember what happened last time, you git?”

He laughed and traced the pale scar that jagged its way around half his neck, like a fault line. “You mean this? It’s just a little scar,” he seemed to think for a minute. “But I guess I got lucky, didn’t I? Any deeper and you woulda killed me.”

My eyes narrowed. “Yeah, too bad.”

He made a pointed glance down to my shirt, which was ruined with blood. “As for why I’m here. Unlike you, I’m here strictly on leisure. I had a day off, and I figured it’d been awhile since we’d had each other’s company. So I thought I’d come and see you. Aren’t I considerate?” He’d said  _ considerate _ as if it meant strangling someone as opposed to hanging them by their hair in a cageful of half-starved wildcats. Both of which I wouldn’t doubt he could do.

“Yes, quite. Now what do you want?”

“Oh, nothin’! I just wanted to catch up, y’know? How’s life? ...How’s business?”

I sighed in annoyance. I didn’t have time for small talk. Especially not with him. He had a contract to kill me; he’d had it for a long time. But he always preferred to toy with me rather than get it over with, like a bored cat plays with a mouse. I had only to wait until he got hungry enough.

I had also received a contract that labelled him as the target, but something about him didn’t settle well with me. Certainly, if I finished the job I’d sleep much better at night, but the opportunity never struck right. I suppose it had morphed into an unspoken pact between us: ‘you-don’t-kill-me-and-I-won’t-kill-you, at least as long as it suits my fancy’.

...I suppose the truth is that I’m terribly afraid of him. Fear wasn’t something I felt very often, but around someone as twisted as Jones, it was as if he gave off an aura that said, ‘fear me - it’s the last thing you’ll ever do’. Which was true, for the most part. He was the kind of person who took his own liberties when it came to his contracts: he liked to deliver the sentence as cruelly and violently as possible, leaving a huge, gory mess for whomever was unfortunate enough to find it. What’s more, once he’d had the taste of blood -sometimes quite literally- nothing was usually there to stop him from going on an impromptu murder spree. It was much more practical for clients to point him in the right direction with a list of people  _ not _ to kill… preferably a short list.

“I’m doing quite fine, thanks for asking. Is that all?”

He clicked his tongue in a  _ tsk, tsk, tsk _ , shaking his head a little. “You never were much for talking about personal matters. Or talking at all, really. I guess it doesn’t matter much in our field,” he shrugged. “Speaking of - 

you’re a bit messier than usual. It seems to me like you’re losing your clean finesse.”

I made no reply. He motioned again to my shirt. “Who was it?”

I bristled. Why was he  _ here _ ? I didn’t have time for this. “What’s it mean to you? Why do you care?”

Jones’ smile fell, and his eyes narrowed. His voice lowered. “I asked you who it fucking was. I want to know.” He took a step towards me, and I instinctively took half a step back.

“It doesn’t matter. Bug off, Jones. Every second I sit and chat is another second I risk getting caught. You know that.”

Suddenly there was a severe pressure under my neck that caused me to double over, and before I knew it I was in a headlock under Jones’ arm. I hadn’t seen him move an inch.

He slipped his hand into my pocket and pulled out my phone. After a few quick seconds of searching, he found the photo. “Good shot. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who takes pictures. Your victims, I must admit, end up looking much more photogenic than mine.” I growled and struggled, without success. He continued brightly, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Ah. Pretty-boy Bonnefoy, huh? I was waiting for the day someone’d want him gone. It was only a matter of time after his father died.” He paused. “Hmm… were you shaking, or are you really losing it? An inch to the left, and it would have been a lot quicker,” I decided not to question how he could’ve possibly spotted the stab wound among the mess of blood and cloth. “...It must’ve taken forever for him to ‘doze off’, huh? It’s really a wonder he didn’t scream and get you caught.”

I sighed. “Perhaps it wasn’t my best job, but it’s done, and that’s what matters.”

“Agreed. Though I do like my jobs on the messier side, anyways. But you know that.” He released me, and tossed my phone back. I caught it and replaced it in its pocket. He stared at me for a minute before cackling like a patient in an institution.

“What are you laughing at, you psychopathic twat?” I spat at him. He only pointed and continued to giggle madly. After a another moment or two, he wiped an amused tear from his eye.

“Awh, look at you, gettin’ hickeys from dead people!”

My eyes widened and a hand reflexively covered my neck. “S-shut up!”

He finally calmed down and shrugged his shoulders. “What you do to get your job done is your prerogative; who am I to judge?” He sneered darkly at me. “Just… make sure you don’t get too attached, yeah?”

...He disappeared before I could lunge for his throat.


	3. Travail À Faire (Work To Do)

**Travail** **À** **Faire** ( _ Work To Do _ )

“So, Mr. Kirkland. I wanted to congratulate you on completing that contract a couple of months ago.”

I dipped my head. “Thank you, boss. I’m supposing you have a new one for me?”

The velvet-suited man nodded from across his desk. “Yes. But there are things we need to discuss first.”

I looked back up, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He nodded. “How have you been, Kirkland? How’s life been treating you?”

I shrugged. “I’m getting on alright. I mean, my social life is still as fertile as a patch of salted copper filings, but that’s just fine by me.” We shared a quiet chuckle before I continued. “Work in the city’s been a bit rocky since the...  _ elimination _ of Bonnefoy, as you must know; but things are looking up.”

He seemed considerate for a moment. “...What is it that you do, again?”

I looked down a bit sheepishly. “I’m an accountant, Mr. Mountbatten.”

“I see. A bit mundane, though, don’t you think?”

I shook my head. “My… ‘part-time’ job fills in all the excitement I need.” He laughed again. I joined him out of politeness. I wasn’t much one for laughing.

“I suppose that’s true. But you’ve been alright? No odd goings-on?”

I gave him a concerned look. “No, not at all. Why do you ask?”

He shuffled through the papers that neatly littered his desk until he found one of interest. He placed it in front of me, and I looked over it. It was a map of the city and the surrounding area, and there were multiple circles around various locations in red marker. One such circle was around the property of the mansion where I had murdered Bonnefoy.

“It seems that sightings of Mr. Jones are on the rise,” his already low voice got lower, and quieter; although we both knew no one could possibly be eavesdropping. “And from the locations and dates we’ve recorded, it appears that he’s following you.”

My throat involuntarily constricted. Jones never cared much to keep himself hidden well. “T-that’s impossible,” I stated, staring hard at the map. “If somebody were following me, I’d know it, especially him... And there definitely wouldn’t be any more sightings of the bastard, that’s for certain.”

Mr. M nodded and said solemnly, “I know. Just be careful, alright? Keep an eye out for him, and remember your contract; terminate him if at all possible. He’s dangerous.”

“...I understand.”

He stroked his chin. “As for the new contract, a quite wealthy person -who wishes to remain anonymous- has offered a hefty sum to see the ‘swan song’ of a certain musician,” He sifted through more papers and handed me a small packet paperclipped together. “His name is Roderich Edelstein, and it just so happens that he’ll be in town for a few shows in a week. I’ve gathered background information for you, as usual. Inside the packet you’ll find a hotel address, phone number, show times, and other such things. And a few notes: he’s deathly allergic to shellfish, if that means anything to you; he also has quite the personal bodyguard - the two seem inseparable, so you may be forced to take them both out. I have cataloged information for you on him as well. Best of luck, Kirkland.”

I thanked him and exited the office.

...A musician? Whomever would hire an assassin to kill a musician?

I shook my head to myself. I supposed it didn’t matter, so long as the job got done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m not quite certain where this came from, exactly, and I’m not quite sure if I want to turn it into a series/collection or not. What do you think?  
> (Also, I apologize for any offense that might be caused to the Duke of Edinburgh… it just sort of happened.)


End file.
